From his low cave to genius’ source divine,
Let him towards thee, Iduna! lift his eyes,
And view, where burning incense at thy shrine
Bragur with Mimer, Balder, chaunt all hail,
And in thy praise their lofty strains unite:
No real hero will thy blessing fail,
And future Scalds his actions shall recite,
And o’er his tomb describe an endless halo bright.
How flat unprofitable life would flow.
Unquicken’d, Idun, by thy apple’s zest!